


Wisdom to Know the Difference

by wintercas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Florist AU, Florist Dean, Fluff, M/M, Painter Castiel, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 13:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1552259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintercas/pseuds/wintercas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is a florist. Castiel is a painter. Somehow, they collide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wisdom to Know the Difference

            “You know what sounds  _really_  good?” Jo says abruptly.

            Dean looks up from his book. “What?”

            Jo’s eyebrows pinch together as she concentrates on the flowers in her hands. “Fresh fruit. Like, off the vine. Not the week-old shit we get at Walmart.”

            Dean adjusts his thick-framed glasses and returns to his book.

            “You look like a dork with those,” Jo says.

           “Thanks. Didn’t Ellen tell you to stop playing with the flowers? We’re supposed to sell those.”

            “Ellen likes my crafts!” Jo says, dropping the flower crown on Dean’s head.

            Dean holds his breath and continues to stare at the page he’s read five times. He will not strangle Jo. He will not strangle Jo. He will not strangle Jo.

            “Also we need to buy groceries.”

            “Not it,” Dean says, touching a finger to his nose.

            “Why did I ever room with you?”

            “You love me.”

            “Yeah, whatever.” Jo hops off the counter and pulls on her coat. “I’m going to lunch. I’ll bring you a sandwich.”

            “And some pie?”

            “Fine, and pie.”

 

            The bell over the door rings half an hour later, bringing a gust of cold January air with it.

            “Did you bring the pie?” Dean asks, not looking up from his book.

            “No, I wasn’t aware you took baked goods as payment,” a man says.

            Dean drops his book and rips off his glasses. “Fuck. I mean, shit. I mean, sorry. Sorry.”

            The man smiles and begins walking up and down the rows of arrangements, unwinding his blue scarf and shoving it in his jacket pocket.

            “I’m really sorry,” Dean stammers, “I thought you were Jo. I mean, we don’t have a lot of business…ever.” The more he talks, the worse it gets. “Can I help at all?” Dean asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

            The man approaches the counter, smiling shyly. His dark hair flops into his blue eyes, and Dean’s heart is melting fast. “Yes, I think so. I want to—”

            The bell rings. “I got your fuckin’ pie.” Jo shouts, trying to balance paper bags of food and a tray of coffee in her arms.

            “Jo!” Dean snaps.

            She looks up from her balancing act. “Shit! Sorry!” She drops the food on the counter. “Can we help you?”

            The man smiles a little more.  “I need a bouquet of flowers,” he says, turning back to Dean.

            “Well, you’re in the right place. What’s the occasion?” Dean asks, praying it’s not for a girlfriend or wife or—

            “I want to paint a still-life.”

            Dean is absolutely  _not_  relieved. “I’m Dean,” he says suddenly, thrusting out his hand and kicking himself for being such a dork.

            “Castiel,” he says, and they shake hands, sending electric tingles up Dean’s spine.

            “Do you have anything in mind, Cas? Colors, or specific flowers, or anything?”

            Castiel shakes his head. “Would you help me choose?”

 

            “That was the most hardcore flirting I’ve seen in a while,” Jo says an hour later. “I mean, it’s like I wasn’t even  _there_.”

            “Shut up, Jo,” Dean grumbles, fiddling with the cash drawer.

            “He  _definitely_  checked out your butt when you went to grab that vase.”

            “I will  _definitely_ pour itching powder in your clean laundry.”

            “You’re still wearing the flower crown,” Jo sings, dancing around the counter to go straighten the displays.

            “Fuck me!” Dean shouts, ripping it off his head.

 

            “Hey, Sammy, it’s me. I know you’re off being some fancy biologist with half a college degree, but gimme a call once in a while, ok? I wanna know if you’re ok. And Jo may be the best surrogate sibling ever, but she gets the wrong pie. So come home once in a while, too.”

            Ellen looks up from her paper when Dean enters.

            “Mornin’, sweetheart,” she says.

            “Hey, Ellen,” Dean says, handing her the cup of coffee, “I dropped Jo off at class, since it’s cold as ba—” Ellen gives him a stern look. “…pretty darn cold out there,” Dean corrects, looking down at his shoes.

            Ellen disappears into the back room, leaving Dean to manage the counter.

            Completely absorbed in his book, Dean doesn’t notice when the bell rings as a customer enters.

            “Excuse me.”

            Dean snaps his head up to see a blurry outline. He rips off his reading glasses, and Castiel comes into focus. “Oh, hi. Sorry. I was just…I’m…an awful employee, clearly.” He sets the glasses on the book and smiles lamely.

            Castiel grins. “I need more flowers.”

 

            Castiel comes in three more times in two weeks.

            “We also deliver,” Dean says one day, pushing the tiny catalogue across the counter.

            Jo pokes her head out of the back room. “And the delivery boy is really cute, too! He wears flower crowns sometimes and he’s got dorky reading glasses and I really think he should get Lasik, but—”

            “Shut up, Jo!”

            Castiel chuckles and picks up the catalogue. “I like your glasses.”

            Dean’s face goes redder than the flowers in Castiel’s hand.

 

            “Hello, Dean. Thank you for bringing my flowers.”

            “I, uh, threw in a vase, too. I thought it’d be neat to paint.”        

            Cas beams and accepts the flowers, fishing in his jeans for his wallet.

            Jo’s motivational speech still echoing in his mind, Dean accepts the cash and takes a deep breath. “Hey, Cas? Would…would you like to go to dinner with me sometime?”

 

            “I don’t think I get it.”

            Castiel bumps Dean with his shoulder. “It’s abstract.”

            Dean scratches the back of his head. “I’m not cultured enough for this.”

            Cas laughs a little and laces their fingers together, making Dean’s heart race. “We can go back to the history section, if you want.”

            “No, this is fine. Just be patient with my uncultured soul.”

            Cas giggles when Dean has to put on his glasses to read a plaque.

            It’s the cutest sound Dean has ever heard, and he almost hates himself for thinking that.

            When Castiel pulls on Dean’s shoulder and stands on his tiptoes to whisper in his left ear, Dean’s heart drops into his stomach.

            “I, uh, didn’t catch that.”

            Cas cocks his head to the side, looking confused.

            Dean feels the heat rising in his face. “I’m…I’m deaf on that side.”

            And then Cas beams, and drags Dean down to whisper in his bad ear again.

            “I’m deaf! I didn’t hear that!”

            “I know,” Cas says cheekily.

            That’s it; Dean is completely gone on this stupid painter.

 

            “Not my place,” Cas pants, peppering kisses all over Dean’s face, “I don’t have a bed.”

            “How do you not have a bed?” Dean asks, dragging Cas’ mouth back to his.

            “Mm—it’s a long story.” Castiel presses a hand against the window to readjust his seat in Dean’s lap.

            “Feel like reenacting that scene from Titanic?” Dean giggles, glancing at the steamed windows of the Impala.

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            Dean pulls away, fingers still knotted in Cas’ hair. “Titanic? Where they have sex in the car?”

            “I don’t think I’ve seen that movie.”

            “How have you  _not seen_  the Titanic?”

            “Does it matter?” Cas wiggles on Dean’s lap. “We can’t have sex in a car in the museum parking lot.”

 

            Dean wakes abruptly up when Jo bangs on his bedroom door.

            “Dean! I gotta go to class!”

            “Fuck,” Dean says, rolling out of bed and jumping into the pants he wore the night before.

            Cas’ rumpled head appears from under the covers, squinting. “What’s going on?” he asks sleepily.

            “I gotta take Jo to class, I’ll be right back,” Dean says, wiggling into his boots.

            “Okay,” Cas grunts, retreating back into the warmth of the blankets.

            Dean grabs his coat and closes the bedroom door behind him.

            “Is he still here?” Jo asks, following Dean down to the car and handing him the keys.

            “Yes,” Dean says, unlocking the car and dropping into the seat.

            “Damn. You must be pretty amazing if he decided to stay the whole night.”

            Dean ignores the comment. “Thanks for making yourself scarce last night,” he says awkwardly, backing out of the parking lot.

            “Thanks for letting me borrow your car,” Jo says, patting the dashboard affectionately. “How was the date?”

            “We grabbed dinner at that soup place, went to the museum on Fifth, and came back here.”

            Jo gives him a shove. “Okay, but  _how_  was the date?”

            “I don’t kiss and tell.”

 

            Castiel pokes his head out of the blankets when Dean closes the bedroom door again.

            “Hello again.”

            “Good morning, sleepyhead,” Dean says, crawling back onto the bed to kiss Cas’ forehead.

            Cas grunts and shuts his eyes. “It’s too early to be up. Come back to bed.”

            “It’s ten, dude. And I’m hungry. Pancakes sound good?” Dean asks. Actually, Cas’ sleepy, snuffling grunts are the cutest sound Dean has ever heard. “You can borrow some PJs if you want.”

            When the smell of pancakes and bacon overwhelms the apartment, Castiel emerges from Dean’s bedroom wearing Dean’s lighthouse pajama pants and an old shirt. “What an interesting collection of pajamas you have,” Cas murmurs, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist and pressing his forehead into Dean’s back.

 

            Jo finds a box of fake flowers on the counter when they open the shop the next morning.

             _STOP MESSING WITH MY MERCHENDISE. –Ellen_

            “If I make you a flower crown, will you wear it all day like you did when you met Cas?”

 

            Castiel’s studio apartment is cluttered; full to bursting with canvasses and paint supplies and books. There is no bed in sight, and Dean wonders briefly if Cas sleeps on the broken-down couch.

            “Were you always deaf in your left ear?”

            “Since I was a teenager. I worked in a factory, and some dumbass who wasn’t doing his job correctly blew half the building up.”

            Cas nods and returns to his sketchbook. “Is it tough?”

            “I dunno. Sometimes it’s hard to hear when people are talking, and I can’t tell where sound is coming from a lot of the time, but it’s got it’s perks, too,” Dean says, still flipping through the magazine. “Did you know they’ve made a car that can get 261 miles per gallon?”

            He looks up to see Cas grinning down at his paper.

            “What?”

            Cas closes he sketchbook and walks around the coffee table to sit on the sofa next to Dean. “You’re very cute.”

            “Shut up,” Dean grumbles, lifting up his arm so Castiel can curl up into his side.

            “It’s true,” Cas insists, pressing his lips to Dean’s jaw, “you’re the cutest florist in the world.”

 

            Jo slams the car door, bringing with her a flurry of snowflakes.

            “Dexys Midnight Runners? Really, Dean?”

            Dean rolls his eyes.

            “You’re getting sappy,” Jo grumbles.

            “Gee, I think it’s getting warm enough for you to walk to class,” Dean says.

            “Ha-ha, asshole.”

 

            “So, how come you don’t have a bed?” Dean asks one day, watching Cas bite his tongue while he paints.

            “My brother was staying here a few months ago, and one thing lead to another, and he donated it to a homeless shelter.”

            “What?” Dean asks, laughing.

            “I can’t complain. At least he donated it to a noble cause. He could have just set it on fire.”

            Cas sits back and scrutinizes the painting before throwing his brush down.

            “I’m totally blocked.”

            “You should drink coffee, I hear that—”

            “Not that kind of blocked, Dean,” Cas huffs, stomping over to the couch and throwing himself down next to Dean. “Would you let me paint you?”

            “No.”

            “Paint  _on_  you, then?”

            “ _No_.”

            Cas huffs a little more and crosses his arms. “Well then I withhold sex.”

            “Like that’ll last an hour.”

 

            Around Valentine’s Day, Dean, Jo, and Ellen are ready to tear their hair out.

            It doesn’t matter that Jo is Ellen’s daughter, or that Ellen thinks of Dean as her son; it doesn’t matter that Jo and Dean are best friends. The bell above the door is constantly chiming with the arrival of frantic boyfriends and girlfriends and husbands and wives, the phone is constantly ringing with loud demands, and it feels like everything is trying to push the three florists over the edge.

            Jo rips the bell off the door, and Dean only just stops her from driving out to the woods to use for target practice. 

            “Yes, I understand that you need—no, I got that,” Dean pleads, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder and trying desperately to write as fast as the man is talking. “Two of those? No, just one. Why’d you say it twice, then?”

            Castiel appears at the counter when Dean is about to lose his patience completely. Ready to snap at Cas, because now _really_  wasn’t the time to talk, Dean raises his hand to shoo him away, but Cas simply hands Dean a cup of hot cocoa and leans across the counter to kiss his cheek.

            Dean can’t hear what Jo and Ellen say when Cas hands them their cups of cocoa, but they both look happier.

            Dean is finally able to hang up with the frazzled businessman, and immediately grabs Cas’ collar and crashes their mouths together.

            “You’re welcome,” Castiel laughs, bracing his hands on the counter.

            “Marry me,” Dean sighs, downing half the cocoa in one gulp and relishing the warmth on his sore throat.

            “Maybe one day, Dean Winchester.”

            Dean chokes, dribbling cocoa down his chin. Jo bursts into laughter.

 

            “Wake up.”

            Dean blinks up at Castiel in the darkness. “Why?” he whines.

            “Because I want to watch the sunrise. Get up.”

            Dean glances at the glowing alarm clock and groans. “You are literally the worst person in the world to wake up, and you’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed already? It’s seven.”

            “Seven isn’t that early, and I never fell asleep. I ran out of melatonin. Get up, let’s go out on your balcony.”

            “You go out on  _your_  balcony,” Dean grumbles, flipping over and wrapping the blankets tightly around himself.

            “Dean,  _please_.”

            Dean grabs a pillow and presses it against his good ear, muffling Cas’ voice.

            Cas yanks away the pillow. “You’re already awake.”

            “Because  _you_  woke me up, dickbag.”

            “I’ll blow you.”

            “Tempting.”

            Cas sighs and drops the pillow back on his head, saying something Dean can’t quite hear.

            “Fine!” Dean groans, throwing off the blankets and pillows.

            They pull on clothes in the darkness and tiptoe through the apartment to step out onto the frosty balcony.

            “Jesus fucking Christ,” Dean says, crossing his arms and very much wishing he was back in his warm bed with Cas. Instead of retreating back indoors however, he wraps his arms around Cas’ chest. Right on time, the darkness in the east begins to glow.

            “What do you think people to say if you were to die today?” Castiel asks suddenly, sounding thoughtful.

            “Jeez, I don’t know. Why, are you planning on murdering me?”

            Cas wiggles in his arms, bringing a cold hand up to thread their fingers together. “I’m serious. What do you think people would say?” They watch the sun burst over the horizon, burning away the darkness.

            Suddenly Dean’s mind goes to the thing he keeps in the very bottom of his desk drawer, the part of his life Cas doesn’t know about.

            “I’d like to think I’d get more famous after I die, but maybe that’s only for talented artists. What do you think they’d say about you?”

            Dean pulls away from him, hating to see Cas shiver with the sudden lack of heat. “I don’t like this game, Cas,” he says quietly.

            “Dean? I didn’t mean—”

            “I’m gonna go get some more sleep,” Dean says, and he shuts the sliding glass door behind him.

 

            Dean can’t go back to sleep, and spends half an hour staring at the wall and wondering what Cas is doing out on the balcony, what Cas is thinking, if he hurt Cas’ feelings; on and on until his head is buzzing with anxiety.

            The bedroom door opens, and Dean sits up.

            “Hey,” he says.

            He watches Castiel peel his many layers off. The bed dips with his weight as he crawls toward Dean.

            “Hey,” Dean says again, feeling silly.

            Cas kneels next to him, gently taking Dean’s face in his hands and staring into his eyes. “Dean. You are so very, very, valued.”

            Dean splutters stupidly, frozen in place. “What? No. What…what…”

            “I keep forgetting that you can’t see your own brilliance.” Cas kisses him softly, slowly, pulling the self-depreciating words out of his mouth. “But you are beautiful, Dean Winchester.”

            “Cas, I can’t.”

            Cas kisses him again, sliding a hand down Dean’s body.

            “Cas.”

            “I said I’d blow you,” Cas says silkily, slipping his fingers under the waistband of Dean’s pajamas.

            “Cas, no.”

            Cas immediately retreats and sits back on his heels.

            They stare at each other in the darkness.

            “I think I’m going to go shower,” he says quietly, “And then I’ll go home.”

            “Cas, wait,” Dean pleads, trying to catch his hand, his wrist, anything.

            But the bedroom door shuts a minute later, and Cas is gone.

 

            “What’s wrong with you?” Jo asks.

            “Bad night,” Dean says, reaching for his coffee and trying to blink away the bleariness in his eyes.

            “Didn’t Cas stay over?”

            “Yes.”

            “Oh.”

            Dean sighs as he pulls into the lot behind the flower shop and kills the engine. “Cas has insomnia.”

            “That’s too bad.”

            “He ran out of medication, and so he woke me up early to go watch the sunrise.”

            “Aw,” Jo says, popping open the car door, “How is that bad?”

            “We were talking and…and Cas doesn’t know a lot about me,” Dean says as they climb out of the car.

            “And? You don’t know a lot about him,” Jo says, fumbling with her keys. 

            “ _And_  there’s a lot of bad stuff he doesn’t know about me.”

            “I’m sure that goes both ways, Dean. I wouldn’t beat yourself up.”

            “Yeah,” Dean says vaguely, jingling his keys in his pocket.

            “I mean, Cas could be an ex-con or a fugitive or a serial killer or a drug user or—”

            “This isn’t helping, Jo.”

 

            “I fly back next week, and I get three days off before my classes start again,” Sam says, his voice crackly over the phone.

            “Awesome,” Dean says, fishing in the fridge for something to eat, “So are you going straight back to California or are you gonna stop here first?”

            “South Dakota is  _not_  on the way back from Costa Rica.”

            “Yeah, well, it could be. It’s been months since you’ve been home, Sammy.”

            “My  _home_  is at Stanford right now. Why don’t  _you_  visit  _me_?”

            Dean sniffs an old sandwich before throwing it in the garbage, coughing a little. “Because I have stuff here. Things. People. Stuff.”

            “You still going to meetings?”

            “No.”

            There’s an awkward silence.

            “Charlie gets back from her road trip tomorrow.”

            “Good. It’ll be nice to have your sponsor back. To…talk to.”

            “Yeah.”

            “You’re…you’re good?”

            “I’m doin’ great, Sammy. I’m on step seven.”

            Sam sounds a little more relieved. “Good. Good. Well, listen, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you when I land, okay?”

            “Okay. Bye, Sammy.”

            “Bye, Dean.”

 

            Dean can’t concentrate on his book.

            Every few seconds, he glances at his phone.

            “I could have sworn I heard it go off,” he grumbles, dropping it back onto the counter.

            “It’s not like your hearing is perfect,” Jo says, biting her tongue as she struggles with the fake flowers. “What are you waiting for, anyway? Cas?”

            Dean’s heart drops into his stomach. He hasn’t heard from Cas for a few days. “No, Charlie is supposed to call when she gets back. I want to know if she gets back safely.”

            Jo places the new flower crown on her own head. “You worry too much.”

            “I think so, too,” someone says, and they both jump. Charlie had entered the shop silently—Jo still hadn’t put the bell back—and was leaning against the counter.

            “Charlie!” Dean says, running around the counter to roughly hug her.

            “Hey, big boy, easy. I just drove like 8 hours straight,” Charlie whines.

            Dean lets her go and touches the tip of her bright red hair. “You cut your hair.”

            “Yeah, I wanted something different. You like it?”

            “It’s cute.”

            Charlie beams. Dean looks over his shoulder at Jo, who is staring with an open mouth.

            “Earth to Jo? This is Charlie.”

            Charlie sticks out her hand, chipped nail polish and silver rings flashing. “Hi, Jo! I’ve heard a lot about you.”

            An hour later, Dean reminds Jo that she’s still wearing the flower crown. She tears it off her head, swearing like a sailor.

 

            The TV flickers above them as they sit on the floor of Charlie’s house that night.

            “How have you been, really?” Charlie asks.

            Dean watches her paint her nails. “I’m okay.”

            Charlie pushes her glasses back up her nose and gives him a stern look. “Really?”

            Dean picks at the hem of his jeans. “No.”

            “Talk to me,” Charlie says, turning back to the bright red polish.

            “I’m seeing someone. He’s…he’s awesome.”

            “What’s his name?”

            “Castiel. Cas. He’s a painter, he goes running every Saturday, no matter what kind of weather it is, and he’s super smart, but he doesn’t watch TV or anything, which is weird, and sometimes he talks really funny and he gets really intense, and…he’s amazing.”

            “He sounds downright dreamy.”

            “Yeah,” Dean says, still picking at his jeans.

            “So what’s the deal?”

            “He doesn’t know about…about…”

            “About your past alcohol abuse?”

            “Yeah,” Dean grumbles.

            “Do you want him to know?”

            “I  _want_  that part of my life to be gone.”

            Charlie laughs a little and flaps her freshly painted hands about. “Don’t we all.”

            “But what should I do?” Dean asks, picking up a bottle of nail polish and looking at the dark liquid inside.

            “You sound pretty enamored.”

            “Shut up, Charlie. This is serious. I think I pissed him off.”

            “Tell him.”

            Dean groans.

            “Fine, you big wuss, don’t tell him. Just let the secret ruin your relationship.”

            Dean groans even more and flops onto the floor.

            “Can I paint your nails?”

            “No.”

            “Pretty please?”

            “No.”

            “Fine,” Charlie huffs. “Here’s what you should say: ‘Cas, I was an alcoholic, but look at this neat little chip I have for being sober for nine months. It’s purple. Like my nails are. Charlie painted them. She’s my sponsor and she’s the coolest kid on the block.’”

            “I hate you.”

            “I know.”

 

            Dean sits outside Castiel’s door on Saturday, waiting for him to get back from his morning run.

            His pocket feels heavy. He rattles his keys, taps his foot.

            “Dean.”

            Cas stands above him, clad in his running clothes and his ridiculous hat.

            “What are you doing here?”

            Dean clambers to his feet, heart racing. “I need to talk to you.”

            Cas looks like he’s about to cry. He swallows, fumbles with his keys, refusing to meet Dean’s eye. “Well, I need to—”

            “I’m not breaking up with you, okay? I’m sorry I’ve been a dick. I’ve…I’ve got something to tell you.”

            Cas nods and unlocks the apartment. “Come in, then.”

            Dean freezes just inside the door, unable to move or speak. He can’t do this. He can’t do this.

            “Dean?”

            Dean reaches into his pocket, fingers closing around the token.

             _God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,_

            “I…I, uh…”

             _The courage to change the things I can,_

            “I’m…I’m…”

             _And the wisdom to know the difference._

            Dean’s throat is too tight to speak. He holds out his hand, and after a second, Cas reaches out to gently peel open Dean’s fingers.

            Cas takes a moment to examine the coin. “Oh, Dean.”

            “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.”

            Cas folds Dean’s fingers back up before wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck. “It’s okay, Dean. It’s okay.”

            Dean twists his fingers in Cas’ hair, blunt nails scratching Cas’ neck.

            “It’s okay,” Cas whispers.

            He hopes Cas won’t realize he’s crying.

 

            Dean wakes up laughing.

            “That’s one way to find out where you’re ticklish,” he hears Cas say, and he opens his eyes in to see Cas sitting next to him, wielding a paintbrush.

            “What—?”

            “Sorry I woke you up. I couldn’t sleep again.”

            Dean looks down at his chest to see colors splotched from his collarbone to his hipbones. It’s hard to tell from the extreme angle and in the dim light, but it looks like a lighthouse.

            “Go back to sleep,” Cas says, shadows playing across his face and chest, making him look like a bronze statue.

            Dean closes his eyes again and tries to return to his dream, but with Cas humming softly next to him and looking for the world like a Greek God, Dean can’t.

            “Are you asleep?”

            “Yes.”

            Cas huffs a small laugh, dragging paint across Dean’s abdomen. “What would help you fall asleep?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “Shall I sing to you?”

            “No offense Cas, but you’re a terrible singer.”

            Cas laughs. “Let’s go wash this off in the shower. I’ll reward you for being such a good canvas.”

 

            They all fall into a quiet rhythm.

            Castiel paints. Dean sells flowers. Jo goes to class. Charlie hits on Jo.

            Castiel insists that Dean should not feel guilty for what happened in the past.

            “That’s not who you  _are_ , Dean.”

            And one day, Dean actually believes it.

 

_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

> comments/concrit/kudos appreciated!


End file.
